I barely manage to nod before I rush out the door and into the too-bright morning. The air is crisp and dry, clearing my head and unknotting my nerves.
I should head straight home, but I don’t. I feel pulled back to Belmont Street. My feet know all the shortcuts by heart, so I follow without thinking. Across Mound Street, then through the newer development to Belmont. I follow the elm trees that line the street, proving just how long these houses have been here. Before I even understand why I’m here, I’m standing in front of Julien’s house.
I try to remember Mrs. Miller in the flower bed or Julien on the porch swing, but I don’t even know if she liked to sit out here. She was practically a stranger to me before. Now, she’s like a ghost in my mind, a hazy silhouette of girl I never really knew. And never will, because she’s gone.
I close my eyes and try to picture her. Maybe hear her voice. She is just a set of vague features. Blond hair, small nose. Shy smile. It could describe half the girls in my school.
“You’re sad that she’s not coming back, aren’t you?” a young voice says.
I look down at the girl in front of me, coat half-zipped and cheeks red from the cold. She can’t be more than eight or nine.
“What?” I ask, though I’m sure I heard her right.
“Julie,” she says. I’ve never heard anyone call her that, but I doubt she’s referring to someone else.
I bite my lip, realizing this little girl probably saw her like an idol, the beautiful princess from the biggest castle on the street. I smile down at her. “I’ll bet she misses you.”
“Yeah, maybe. She made snowmen with me sometimes. I don’t think you can do that in California,” the little girl reasons, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her coat. She looks up and must not like the pity she finds in my eyes. She crosses her arms and tries to look tough. “But it’s not like I stand here crying because she’s gone.”
“I’m not crying.”
The little girl blinks up at me. “Maybe not now, but you did then. I saw you crying here. The night she left.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms, but I try to chuckle, as if I can laugh them away. “I’m sorry, you must be thinking of somebody else.”
“Nuh-uh. You were wearing that same red coat. You stood out there for a long time. You know, my mom was going to call the cops.”
“The cops? Why?”
She shrugs and makes a circle on the sidewalk with her boot. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought you were going to do something bad.”
“I wasn’t,” I say, but I don’t know that. I don’t even remember being here, so I sure the hell don’t know what I was doing. Or why I was crying.
“Well, I gotta go. Don’t be sad about Julie. You can send her letters. She likes my glitter paper, so you can borrow some if you want.”
I try to thank her, but there’s no voice left in me. Instead, I watch her leave, a ribbon of dark hair flapping above her pink coat as she runs. I wish I could run too, hard and fast until my lungs burned and my eyes watered.
But I know it would never be fast enough. I’m sure my past would still catch up with me.
Chapter Twelve
I’ve covered all my bases. I called school and my parents and even changed back into pajamas. As if I’m actually going to sleep. I’m a million miles from sleep.
I double check my phone for the thousandth time, making sure my text message to Maggie actually sent. I can’t imagine her ignoring a message like this, no matter how terrible things between us have gotten.
I look at it again, wondering if maybe I wasn’t clear.
I need your help, Mags. I’m really in trouble. Please, please call.
No, I’d say that’s pretty freaking clear. But she hasn’t called, and I can’t sit here waiting around for her to do it. As much as I wish things were different, they obviously aren’t. I’m on my own.
I sigh and toss my quilt back over my bed, shuffling into a pair of fuzzy bear-feet slippers before I settle in at my desk. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look like an advertisement for depression medication, all thin lips and dark circles under my eyes.
Okay, enough. I don’t care what the hell happened in the last six months, I’m not going to turn into one of those girls who writes bad poetry about endless suffering in solitude.
I stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror and cross my eyes. Better. I’ll pick goofy over whiny any day of the week. And twice on Sundays.
I clear my throat and open my laptop because I’ve got the whole Internet at my fingertips. Surely some study group secrets are out there. There were eighteen of us, for God’s sake. Someone had to say something. I just need to find it.
By lunchtime, the most exciting thing I’ve found is knitting instructions on Cally Baron’s blog. I’m not even kidding. I’ve practically surfed my way into a coma because this is the most pathetic stalking adventure ever.
These people aren’t just clean. It’s like I type in their names and get routed directly to the definition of Goody Two-shoes. There isn’t a single current reference to any study group member that isn’t good-grades this and another-success that, and it’s all so boring I could just die.
It’s also mostly useless for anything other than filling me in on a few gaps about the group itself. The Ridgeview SAT Study Group lasted the entire summer, and it was a crazy success. God knows exactly what worked, because from what I can tell from everyone’s posts and tweets, we basically just hung out a lot.
Once a week, we’d get together officially to do outlines and flash cards and—meditation and tea? I guess it’s studying with a side of Zen or yoga or whatever. And somehow we’re now all born-again Einsteins? This is ridiculous.
I mean, really. This does not make sense.
Frowning, I flip screens back to the study group website, sure I’m missing something in the fine print. There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and my dad appears, looking a little worn out.
“Hey. Aren’t you home early?” I say.
“I’m coming down with something too,” he says, sniffling. “Figured I’d check in on you.”
“Oh, I just had a stomach thing,” I say, which isn’t entirely untrue. “I feel better now, but I figured I was already in my jammies.”
Dad’s face tightens briefly, but in the end he relaxes. I don’t tend to skip school, and he doesn’t tend to play the heavy. Or maybe he’s just tired. His nose and eyes are a little red.
“Do you want me to heat up a can of soup for you?” I offer.
He shakes his head and produces a tissue, blowing his nose trumpet-style. Then he nods at my computer. “Did they ever update that website?”
I glance back at the study group with a frown. “Uh, I guess not.”
My father crosses his arms, looking a little haughty. “I figured he’d be all over getting his corporate sponsor stuff front and center. I still can’t believe they’re planning on charging for that next year.”
“Charging?”
“For the study group,” he says, then he narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t tell me you changed your mind. You were halfway ready to write the school board when I told you about it.”
“Right. Sorry.” I wave my hand over a stack of miscellaneous papers. “I’m all wrapped up in this history paper.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s some ginger ale in the fridge if you want it.”
“Already had one. You look like you could use some sleep.”
He grunts and turns around, closing my door behind him.
And I stare at it, more confused than ever. The whole thing is turning into a Scooby-Doo episode. Who’d be all over this? And what corporate sponsor? Why in the world would I care about any of it?
My phone buzzes, and I glance over, seeing an incoming call. My phone screen goes bright with light, and Maggie’s picture dances across the screen. Every cell in my body does a little jump for joy.
I dive for my phone as if I’ll blow up if I miss the call. I just might.
“Hello?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. And failing miserably.
“Hey.”
The sound of her voice alone is enough to make me feel better.